


shadows in your glow

by sweetestsight



Series: Vloggers [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Smut, Youtuber AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: John and Roger do VidCon. And each other.
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Series: Vloggers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1736374
Comments: 32
Kudos: 53





	shadows in your glow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovelies! 
> 
> This is a second part of (broad)casting your limelight. I wouldn't say it's essential to read that first, but this'll certainly make more sense with it. This isn't told in quite as much detail in terms of the timeline, so it's really just the highlight real. Because of that it's much shorter. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Despite never having met John in person, he recognizes him from across the room in a second.

“Sure you’re good?” he asks Brian one final time, trying his best not to let his distraction show. It’s hard not to stare at the curly head of chestnut hair on the other side of the hotel bar. He glances in John’s direction again and meets his eyes for just a millisecond before tearing his gaze away.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Brian insists. There’s a woman hanging off his arm and a bright magenta drink in his hand and yeah, he’ll be fine. 

“Alright,” Roger says. “Don’t wait up for me. Though I suppose I shouldn’t, either,” he adds with a wink and a pointed glance at the woman. Brian’s cheeks heat up to just a single shade lighter than his drink, and he nods.

Roger makes his way through the crowd quickly, praying that John hadn’t moved—he shouldn’t have, seeing as he was the one who asked Roger to come down here in the first place, but he can’t take anything that’s happened between them for granted.

John hasn’t moved, though. He’s sitting against one of the leather booths lining the sides of the room, one elbow resting along the top of the backrest. He’s swirling a coke with the other hand as if it’s something much stronger. Despite how busy the bar is, he’s sitting alone.

“No loving fans to entertain tonight?” Roger asks him dryly.

John’s lips quirk up into a familiar serene smile. “Lucky for you, no,” he says. “I actually have my own people to be adoring. Or person, rather.”

Roger hums, fighting to keep his happiness from his face. “Your room or mine?” he asks blandly, and John’s smile just grows.

They make it to the elevator, but just barely. As soon as the doors close John is on him, punching the button to his own floor with perfect accuracy even as he kisses Roger for all he’s worth, one thigh pressed between both of his own and his free hand tugging their hips flush together. Roger lets him, because he really, _really_ wasn’t expecting this to go this way, and god help him but he’s still trying to get his bearings.

He knows John likes him— _likes_ him, like they’re twelve years old or something, but it’s true. And he’s been more than interested in John for way too long, despite never having met him in person.

This is all working out a little too easily. It’s like a dream come true.

John tugs him down the hall to his room, swiping the door open with a shaky hand, and it’s Roger who pushes him inside and presses him against the wall. John goes just a little too easily, groaning low in his throat when Roger pins him there. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, and it’s way too much way too fast.

“Jesus,” Roger whispers. When he traces John’s mouth John bites his thumb, and he gasps. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

“I could say the same,” John replies, his eyes jumping to Roger’s lips. “You’re even hotter in person. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“A time or twelve.”

“So humble, too.”

When John leans forward to kiss him it’s a little slower, a little gentler, but no less hungry. Roger can’t help but lean forward and roll their hips together, and it leaves John gasping into his mouth. He’s lovely and sexy and so utterly responsive and _wonderful_ that Roger’s head spins.

“I really want to fuck you,” Roger whispers when he pulls away. “I _really_ want to. Can I?”

He’d expected some sort of hesitance. He isn’t sure why, really. Either way he doesn’t get it. John is nodding almost before the question is even fully formed, grabbing Roger’s hand and pulling him in the direction of the bed. “Yes,” he breathes. “God. I want you to. I’ve been thinking about it for way too long.”

“I can’t believe this,” Roger says, letting out a breathless laugh.

John raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing. You’re just—ugg. This is a wet dream come true, you know.”

“You have dreams about me?” John asks lowly. He sits down on the edge of the bed, tugging at the hem of Roger’s shirt until Roger pulls it off for him.

“Yeah,” Roger admits. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about it, not really.

“What do I do in them?”

“You really want to— _fuck,_ ” he gasps as John leans forward unceremoniously and latches his lips onto his nipple.

“Hmm?”

“You really want to know?”

“How else am I going to make your dreams come true?” he asks, a thin vein of sarcasm in his voice.

Roger snorts. “You can start by getting your fucking clothes off.”

John outright laughs at him at that.

And really, he never wants the sight of his longtime crush naked on the crisp white hotel sheets to leave his memory. He never wants to forget what he looks like with a blush creeping down his chest, his mouth hanging open slightly as he watches Roger with hooded eyes. He never wants to forget this.

“You alright?” Roger murmurs to him. John’s hands are shaking again, or maybe it’s that he never stopped shaking in the first place.

John just nods. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Need to slow down?”

“No, this is good.” He licks his plush lips, gasping when Roger rubs lube-slick fingertips against his entrance.

“Ready?”

“Please.” His eyelashes flutter beautifully when Roger presses into him, his rim tight as a vice around Roger’s finger and his brow furrowing at the feeling.

“Alright?” Roger murmurs to him.

“Fuck yes,” he hisses. “If you ask me that again I’m leaving.”

Roger huffs out a laugh, pressing in deeper and reveling in the little gasp John lets out against his cheek. He stretches him until he can fit a second alongside the first, and when he scissors them John swears and scrabbles for grip against his back.

“Fucking— _shit,_ Roger, your…” he gets out, throwing his head backward with a gasp.

Roger waits for him to continue, grinning when he doesn’t. “My…?” he prompts, pumping his fingers into him slow and sure.

John wheezes like he’s just been shot, and it really shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. “Your—fuck, your fingers.”

“What about them?” Roger asks, his tone purposefully bored. He reaches down with his other hand to wrap his fist loosely around John’s cock, not providing nearly enough pressure to get him off.

John grunts. “They’re perfect, _fuck_ you’re such an asshole.”

“Having perfect fingers makes me an asshole?” Roger chides, stilling both of his hands.

“No,” John breathes, whining as Roger stills. “I’m—no, I’m sorry.”

“You sure?”

“You’re only an asshole if you don’t move.”

Roger scoffs. He ducks down to peck John sweetly on the lips. “You’re forgiven,” he whispers to him, holding his cloudy gaze, and crooks his fingers up to rub directly against his prostate.

John’s mouth falls open on a stuttering moan, his eyes practically rolling back as he abruptly shoots off all over his own chest.

Roger can do nothing but stare as he comes—as he just _keeps_ coming, trembling in Roger’s arms and making an utter mess of himself. His cock twitches in Roger’s hand a few more times before dribbling all over his fingers, John breathing hard below him. Roger just watches, his mouth hanging open.

Finally John goes boneless. It’s only then that he groans, long and low, the arm he has thrown over his face not quite hiding his vivid blush. “Sorry,” he mutters, his voice rough.

“Uh,” Roger says faintly. “What for?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“I thought we already established that I’m not an asshole,” Roger points out, ignoring the glare John shoots him from behind his arm. “Besides, that was—Jesus, that was hot.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Mad at you for coming on my fingers within, like, maybe a minutes?” he asks, and again he ignores the dirty look John sends his way. “No. If anything I’m honored. God,” he mutters, smearing his fingers through the mess on John’s skin, and John shudders below him. “It was sexy as hell, you have no idea. I’m more than happy with my night ending like that.”

John lips his kiss-bruised lips idly. “Who says it has to end?” he asks, his voice low.

“You…” Roger starts. “That is, you’re alright with…”

John nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m…just be gentle, alright?”

Gentle. He flexes the fingers still trapped in John’s heat, and John gasps beneath him. He can do gentle.

He pulls out to scoop up some of the come on John’s chest, using it to further ease the way and make him wet and sloppy, and John’s head thunks backward into the pillows when he realizes what Roger has done.

“You like that, honey?” Roger whispers, barely moving his fingers. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him, not yet—not now that he knows how sensitive he can be. “You like that I’m fucking you open with your own mess?”

John swallows hard, his cheeks red and hot, and nods.

“Tell me.”

“I like it, Rog,” John murmurs, just barely above a whisper, somehow blushing even darker.

Roger swipes his free hand through his cum again, licking it off his own fingers and grinning when John moans breathlessly. “You’re lovely, you know that?” he asks him conversationally, rolling the taste around his mouth.

“ _Roger,_ ” John whines.

He leans down to kiss him, slow and deep and sweet, licking into his mouth and smiling against his lips when John moans at the taste of his own cum. Fuck, but he’s _filthy_ —he’s somehow filthy and sweet at the same time, and Roger didn’t even think it was possible but now that he’s confronting the reality he realizes he’s woefully unprepared. He’s going to shoot off into his own jeans like a virgin if he’s not careful.

“You’re wonderful,” Roger whispers to him when he pulls away, and John’s eyes drift shut like he’s basking in it. Roger kisses the corner of his mouth sweetly. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you have no idea. Most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. You feel so fucking good, too. I can’t wait to be inside of you.”

John sighs blissfully, pressing down against his fingers.

“Ready?”

John nods. “Gentle. Please.”

“Like this?” Roger whispers, pressing his fingers deeper into him long and slow, carefully avoiding his prostate.

John nods. “Yeah. Yes, just like that, yeah.”

Just like this—slow and careful, nothing frantic about it. Roger isn’t really sure if this is anything more than a one-night stand to relieve tension, or if it’s something more. John certainly hasn’t indicated that it’s one thing or the other, and he’s not about to ruin the moment by asking. He can do it like this, though, whether it’s a one-off or not. He can hold John close like they’re a real couple, can open him up gently and slowly like they have all the time in the world. He wants nothing more than to do that.

John is tight around his fingers, and Roger would almost be worried that he’s hurting him if not for the way that he keeps letting out these tiny moans against the side of his face like he’s somehow surprised himself with how good It is. “You like that?” Roger whispers to him, just to be sure, and John nods frantically.

“Yeah, it’s— _yes,_ ” he breathes.

Roger brushes his prostate feather-light just to watch him groan, twitching into the movement and throwing his head back. The sight of him makes Roger’s mouth go dry. He has to lean forward to latch his lips onto the curve of his throat, then. He can’t possibly resist it, and it just makes John moan louder as his fingers tangle themselves in Roger’s hair and hold him in place.

“Fuck, Rog,” he breathes. “Fuck, _fuck,_ give me more.”

“You ready?”

John hesitates before nodding, and Roger tilts his head. Not yet, then.

He twists his fingers inside him until he starts babbling nonsense into the side of Roger’s head, until he’s loose enough that Roger slips half his pinky in and wonders distantly how much more it would take for him to fit his whole hand. It’s only then that he pauses, looking up at John’s face.

John is staring right back at him, his eyes hooded and hazy and his lips bitten red. “Please,” he murmurs. “I’m ready, come on.”

That sounds a little more like it.

He’s hot and tight around his cock and pushy as anything, pulling Roger closer with long legs wrapped around Roger’s waist and moaning high in his throat when Roger hitches one of his knees up even higher. And Roger wants to take it slow, he really does—slow and gentle and sweet the way that John deserves—but John seems to hold no such reservations.

“Rog,” he breathes after a few long minutes of long, slow thrusts and tender touches, “give it to me, come on.”

And Roger really can’t say no to that.

He thrusts into him _hard_ and John’s blunt nails immediately scratch against his shoulders, looking for purchase as he encourages him to go harder. Roger leans upward slightly, their torsos no longer pressed together quite as intimately, but it gives him a little more leverage to make his thrusts long and deep. He knows the second he hits John’s prostate because John practically arches off the mattress, his hips practically in Roger’s lap, and Roger grins.

“There?”

“Fucking—Rog, god,” he pants. He moans long and thin when Roger hits it again and again, the sound of it stretching on and on in the otherwise quiet room, one arm thrown over his face as his cheeks darken even further with what Roger distantly realizes is embarrassment. He grabs John’s hand, pulling it away from his face and tangling their fingers together.

“None of that,” he breathes. “Let me see you. I want to see you fall apart on my cock like this, want to watch you and hear you— _fuck,_ you sound so good, honey.”

“Roger,” John whines.

“You look so good for me,” Roger continues. “Fucking ruined, look at you. I think I’d like to do this over the bathroom counter. Would you like that? Watching yourself fall apart in the mirror like that? Watching how good I make you feel?”

“I really don’t need to see it to—to believe it,” John pants, gripping his hand hard.

“Feeling that good for me?”

“ _Yes,”_ he groans, his mouth hanging open prettily as he gasps for air, and something about it hits Roger in the chest like a load of bricks. He grips John’s cock in his free hand, squeezing lightly at the base before pumping him once, and John groans. “Fuck, I’m close.”

“Don’t hold back. I want to see you come all over yourself again. Could watch you do it all day.” He begins working him in earnest, the beat just a shade behind the rhythm of his hips, and John whines. “Come on, let me see you.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before John moans _loud_ , his hips jerking against Roger’s as he adds to the mess on his own chest. Roger works him through it until he’s shaking, twitching with aftershocks and overstimulation, and the sight of him blissed out and so gorgeously satisfied has something dizzy and warm spinning through Roger’s head. John twitches around him, warm and tight and perfect, and Roger presses into him hard one more time as he comes hard into the condom.

John grunts when he pulls out, his leg tightening around Roger’s hips again, and Roger kisses his throat soothingly as he tugs the condom off and tosses it in the direction of the bin. He collapses down against him, his face pressed into John’s neck and John’s long hair sticking against his clammy skin. It should be gross and uncomfortable, but somehow it’s not. Somehow it just feels nice.

John is stroking the space between his shoulder blades, his fingers tracing out nonsense shapes and patterns. It’s soothing enough to have him relaxing even further against him.

He likes him a lot.

He isn’t really sure how to tell him that. Their friendship before arriving to LA was mostly built on memes and vines and the odd voice call. They talk about everything but nothing that matters—never Brian and Freddie, never the odd tension between the four of them, never anything like that, but Roger feels like he knows him all the same. He likes him, and he wants to get to know him further.

He just doesn’t really know how to tell him that. He doesn’t know how to ask for more.

“Do you want to stay the night?” John whispers to him.

Something in Roger’s chest eases and he nods, shifting off of him slightly so that he’s not crushing him anymore. John sighs sadly at that, and then softens again when Roger curls onto his side, the two of them facing each other. It’s nice, really.

“I need to take a shower,” Roger mutters, his eyes drifting shut. “Fuck, we _both_ need to shower.”

John laughs at him. “In a minute. I don’t think I can quite stand up yet.”

“Mmh.” Roger leans forward, throwing his arm over John’s waist and pressing a lazy kiss to his lips. “A minute, then.”

The shower rapidly devolves into Roger pinning John against the slate and doing his best to suck his soul out through his (unfairly pretty, quite frankly intimidatingly large) dick, and then it turns into John whispering utter filth into his ear over the sound of the water while he jerks him off slow and teasing with his (again unfairly pretty, quite frankly intimidatingly large and additionally intoxicatingly rough) hands until Roger lets out a sound he won’t admit to later while he shoots off all over the grey walls.

And then he eyes up the bathroom counter before deciding that the steam on the floor will make it too much of a hazard to try for round three, to which John informs him that it’s nearing eight in the morning British time anyway, and they can at least comfort themselves in knowing that they’ve succeeded in fucking through the entire night.

So they go to sleep, and in the morning they wake up together.

“Is it awkward to say that I kind of forgot that the con is even happening?” Roger asks him over room service—fluffy scrambled eggs, charred apple sausage and thick slices of white toast.

“Hmm?” John asks around his coffee. He’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes. It’s adorable.

“I know we have things to do today,” Roger continues. “I just—does it make me a nympho to say that I’d rather spend that time in bed with you?”

“I think so,” John says mildly, “but at least the feeling is mutual. And I think the word is satyr…satyriac?”

“Hmm?” Roger asks, confused. “Satirist?”

“No, the male version of nympho.”

“There’s a male version of nympho?”

“Yeah, it’s nymphomaniac like nymphs and satyr…whatever because of satyrs,” John says, watching him with a cautious expression that Roger realizes with a twist in his chest means John is waiting for him to cut him off. “Because, I don’t know, I think satyrs and nymphs are horny on main or something. It’s something to do with bacchanalia.”

“Baccha-what now?”

“The, uh—you know what, it doesn’t matter,” he says, flushing and then hiding it behind a sip of coffee. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

Jesus, he’s a _nerd._ Roger practically swoons. “You look like a nymph,” he blurts out, and then immediately mentally kicks himself.

“What?” John asks, frowning.

“Nothing,” Roger says. He clears his throat loudly. “Uh, sex. You’re sexy.”

John fiddles with his mug, his cheeks still red. “Thanks,” he says, watching Roger with something that almost looks like fear, and fucking hell is he messing this up. “You are, too.”

“Hmm?”

“Sexy,” John says, his voice low.

He has the kind of eyes that make Roger’s breath catch in his throat. It’s nothing about the color or anything like that; it’s simply something about the intensity that makes his breath come a little quicker and his brain feel a little lighter. It happens now, with John watching him intently. He feels pinned.

“I kind of got that from last night,” he says quietly. His throat feels dry, and he licks his lips only to mentally cheer when John’s eyes flit down to track the motion.

“Are you sure?” John asks, setting his mug aside.

“That I got that?”

“Mmh. I can show you again.”

“Maybe that would help.”

“You think so?”

“I think it might, yeah.”

Breakfast gets derailed rather spectacularly.

By the time he finally kicks John out of his room his knees feel weak, there’s an ache in his jaw and he has just about enough energy to take on the world. He hums as he gets ready to go out, already thinking about a coffee shop a ways down the street, when he finds John’s shirt from the night before laying in a wrinkled heap beside his bed.

The thin cotton is light and nicely draping, just the right shade of olive to bring out the green in John’s eyes. When he pulls it on it smells like him—warmth, hotel soap, the lightest trace of cologne.

He rolls the too-long sleeves up to his elbows, grabs his room key and sunglasses, and heads out.

* * *

First times are not a big deal. They’re a social construct and they’re not important.

He knows that.

And he’s not a virgin; far from it. He may have only ever slept with women—or rather, he may have only ever slept with _one_ woman, may times—but that doesn’t make him a virgin.

(And honestly, he really hadn’t slaved over the thought during his actual first time, either. It had been fine; it had been _good,_ even. Ronnie had whined directions at him between moans while he fingered her right to the edge, and he’d really only managed to fuck her for about fifteen seconds or so before both of them came immediately, but. Whatever. It had paved the way for a long and healthy relationship which had ended far too soon, but had at least led to a lovely friendship.

Semantics.)

The _point_ is that he shouldn’t be worrying about it in the first place. It doesn’t matter, it had gone fine, Roger was wonderful and he’d seemed none-the-wiser to the fact that he was restructuring John’s entire world with nothing but his dumb callused fingers and equally dumb cock.

And his mouth, this morning. And his fingers again.

And his hands later that afternoon. It’s fine.

He does think they might have a bit of a problem. It’s probably not normal to have sex six times within the first day of meeting each other, but he can hardly help it. The con is long, tedious and, frankly, quite boring. He’s had more than his share of grungy teenagers quoting his own vines at him in the first two hours of the day alone. And if it wasn’t that…

(“Are you going to collab with RT anytime soon?” the girl asks.

John nervously pops one of his knuckles below the table. One of his fellow panelists grimaces at the noise, which makes John himself wince and press his palms to his knees. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, you’ve been spending so much time together that we can’t help but wonder.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I doubt it. I literally live with Freddie but I’ve never collabed with him.”

“So you _have_ been spending time together?”

“No,” he says flatly. Not unless you count time in bed, he wants to add, but doesn’t. “Next question.”)

If he’d been frustrated by the events of the day and the press of the spotlight Roger was only more irritable about it. He’d knocked on John’s door not two hours ago, grunted something about the rampant homophobia and misogyny in the gaming community and the fact that all his panelists were ass wipes, and then thrown himself down on John’s bed and whined something about how he just wanted to forget all of it.

Which had led to John leaning against his arm, turning on the telly and putting on Blue Planet to take their minds off of it.

Which had somehow led to him fucking Roger into the mattress. He’s not really sure how.

It had at least sent his anxieties flying out the window. Having Roger laid out beneath him had sent a rush of power through the back of his head, and everything had come instinctually. Stretching him open was easy. Fucking into him was easy—tilting his hips up into it, dragging Roger closer and bracketing him in with his own body and whispering filth into his ear—it had all been easy and _good_ and wonderful.

And now he’s laying here on his mussed sheets, having a breakdown.

He starts when his phone rings, accepting the call without looking and raising it to his ear. “Hello?”

_“What’s up, jackass?”_

“Dick,” he says automatically. “Where are you? I haven’t seen you.”

 _“I haven’t seen_ you, _”_ Freddie gripes. _“Christ, John. I haven’t seen you all day.”_

“Sorry. I’ve been hanging out with Roger.”

_“Your new friend is so shiny and fun that you don’t even have time for your old ones anymore?”_

“That’s not—”

_“Seven years. Seven years now, you’ve been my best friend in the whole world, and this is how you repay me. Unbelievable. I genuinely can’t believe that my sweet baby Deaky would hurt me like this.”_

“Well, you could have called me if you wanted to get dinner,” he mutters, sitting up in bed. He looks at his reflection in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall and pokes at the bruise peeking out of his collar. Thank god he brought concealer.

 _“I had plans,”_ Freddie says. _“I actually have a couple of fans here.”_

“Wow. They pay hundreds of dollars to meet their favorite YouTubers, and it turns out that a few of them are here for you.”

_“Well, just a few.”_

“I’m sure.”

_“Why? What’re yours like?”_

“You think I have any?” There’s another hickey just below the first, if he pulls his collar down low enough. When he pokes at it it tingles pleasantly, just the barest echo of a sting. The memory of Roger’s teeth buried in his skin to hide a high moan comes back to him.

_“I know you have some. They keep quoting that fucking vine at—”_

“The juul one?”

_“Yeah, the juul one. I hate that you roped me into that.”_

“Never forget that I built the empire on which you stand,” John tells him dryly, and Freddie snorts at the same time as someone raps on the door. “Hey, I’ve got to go, alright? It’s late.”

_“Yeah, alright. I suppose I need my beauty sleep, anyway. Jet lag is whipping my ass.”_

“Kinky,” John says. He stands up to cross the room and open the door. “Night, Fred. Let’s get breakfast tomorrow or something, alright?”

_“Alright. Night.”_

He hangs up at the same time as he unlocks his door. The minute it’s unlatched it’s being pushed inward, Roger all but stumbling into his room.

John raises his eyebrows. “Can I help you?”

“Deaky,” Roger breathes, letting out a tiny laugh. “Baby.”

His stomach twists at the nickname. Surely Roger doesn’t mean it like… _that._ He only uses pet names during sex, anyway. They’re not dating, and John would do well to remember that.

Which, right. Sex.

“I’m not having sex with you,” John says flatly, eyeing Roger’s red cheeks.

Roger lets out a noise somewhere between a whine and a hum. “’M not that drunk.”

“You’re drunk enough.”

“Babe—”

“Nope.”

“Relax,” Roger insists. “I wasn’t going to—if you don’t want to then we won’t. I didn’t come here for that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I wanted a cuddle,” Roger says sadly.

John raises his eyebrows. Then, unfortunately, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “That’s gay.”

“No homo, then,” Roger says with an eye roll. “Please? This hotel is too cold.”

“We have thermostats for a reason.”

Roger huffs and turns toward the door, making to leave, and John panics as he takes a step forward.

“Wait,” he says quickly. “That doesn’t mean you can’t.”

“It’s fine,” Roger says snidely. “I’d rather curl up with my _thermostat.”_

“Don’t,” he says, despite himself. “Stay with me.”

Roger crosses his arms.

“It makes more sense,” he says faintly. “And I, uh. You don’t need to, but I’d like if you did.”

Roger’s face softens slightly at that. He steps further into the room hesitantly, as if he’s waiting for John to follow.

John doesn’t hesitate.

Despite his complaint about cold rooms Roger strips down to his boxer briefs before he climbs into bed, waiting patiently for John to follow. John isn’t sure why he was expecting Roger to stay on his own side, but he holds his breath when Roger curls around him in the darkness, his chest pressed to John’s arm.

They lay there like that for a long moment.

John can’t quite get his spine to relax. He’s hyperaware of his own breathing, and for some reason it’s leaving him feeling just a little breathless. He can feel Roger’s heartbeat against his arm—and now he’s hyperaware of _Roger,_ and really—

“You’re thinking too much,” Roger rasps.

John swallows hard. “I’m not. Go to sleep.”

Roger hums. The hand that was resting on John’s sternum comes up to cradle the back of his neck, and then he feels soft lips under his jaw.

He squirms. “Roger, I told you I’m not going to—”

“I’m not trying to fuck you,” Roger says firmly.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Trying to kiss you, you dumbass,” he says, then leans up and does just that.

His mouth is velvety and vaguely wine-sweet, and he doesn’t seem to mind that John’s lips are a little chapped. He kisses him slowly and familiar as if they’re— _something_ that they’re not, John doesn’t even know—his hand rubbing tiny circles at the base of John’s skull, his body warm against John’s own, and John sighs through his nose as he shifts into his touch.

When he lets his hand wrest on the curve of Roger’s waist Roger shifts closer, one of his legs tangled between John’s own. “There you go,” he whispers, his lips brushing John’s own with every word before he leans forward to peck him once. “You get so lost in your own thoughts, I swear.”

John smiles wryly into the darkness. Whatever; if this is what Roger wants then he can give it, bad idea or not. “You’re very stressful to be around, you know.”

“It’s been said, actually,” Roger whispers. He nuzzles into the crook of John’s neck happily. “You smell so good.”

John just snorts. “Go to sleep.”

“Mmh.”

Roger is warm and heavy in his arms. It’s nice to curl up with him, domestic and sweet. It’s different this way, when they’re weighed down from sleepiness rather than exhaustion; when the sheets are still clean and without sweat lingering on their skin. He likes it more than he wants to admit, and he can only hope that he won’t get too used to it—that he won’t get addicted off of just one night.

The thought hardly lingers. Warm and safe in Roger’s arms, his skin tingling from the rhythmic breaths against his neck, he drifts off before one second and the next. His last thought before sleep takes him is that he hasn’t felt this at peace in a long, long time.

* * *

The morning is heralded in my Freddie’s ungodly shrieking.

Really, Roger can hardly blame him, even as much as he wants nothing more than to curl back into John’s chest and doze off. He’d been sleeping well and deeply, John’s arms comforting and heavy around him, his face tucked into the hollow below his neck and the sheets pulled up past his cheekbones.

It had been nice. It had been very nice.

But one look at the distress on Freddie’s face had the night before rushing right back to the forefront of his brain; one look at Freddie had reminded him all too vividly of Brian sitting in bed drinking wine and making a valiant effort at pretending that nothing was bothering him.

Brian tries his best, but unfortunately it doesn’t count for much. Roger knows him too well.

He thinks, privately, that the fact that they go to such great lengths to hide their own affection for each other is a bit ludicrous. He knows full well that they like each other more than they let on, mostly because they give a fuck about each other’s opinions at all. Brian has never given trash talk the time of day unless it comes from someone he genuinely respects.

And that’s not even touching on the fact that the two of them apparently spend time together—enough time to exchange multiple kisses despite allegedly being arch-enemies, anyway.

He thinks all of this through as he scrubs his hair with John’s shampoo, pushing the suds across his scalp and staring at the wall across from him blankly. He’s pretty sure he’s going to have to steal some of John’s bath products before this trip is through. They’re way too luxurious for him to leave behind, and he has no idea where to get his own.

Maybe if he steals them John will come get them back. Maybe John will come to his flat and then never leave.

That’s a pipe dream.

That’s the other thing he can’t stop thinking about, though. For all of the domesticity of the morning, he can’t help but think it every time he presses a kiss to John’s mouth and gets a hazy-eyed gaze in return. It haunts him.

John doesn’t like him.

John doesn’t care about him the way that Brian cares about Freddie—all-consuming but at the same time so constantly that it’s simply a background noise in his mind. He doesn’t care about him the way that Freddie cares about Brian—stars in his eyes, breath stuttering in his throat, so painfully obvious that Roger doesn’t understand how everyone else doesn’t see it.

John might not care about him at all.

He knows that the sex is good. He knows that John will come to him for that, at least. He just isn’t so sure that he’ll come to him for anything else. It’s the doubt that he can’t shake away: that despite the domesticity of all of this, John rarely shows his true colors. It’s possible that he holds no affection for Roger at all.

He’s interrupted out of his thoughts by the bathroom door swinging open, and then closing just as quick.

“Hey,” John says.

Roger can barely see him through the fogged glass of the shower door, but he can make out the shapes: the pinkish blur of John’s face, the chestnut smudge of his hair, the white shadow of his robe falling away to reveal even more skin. He feels like he’s spying; like he’s looking at something he shouldn’t be allowed to see. It’s a ridiculous thought—of course John knows that he’s here—but nonetheless something about watching him like this sends desire curling through his chest, even despite the doubt that still lingers there.

“Rog?” John calls. “Are you alright in there?”

“Yeah,” Roger says quickly. “Sorry. Just thinking.” He turns away from John’s fragmented form to face the shower head, warm water rushing down his chest and carrying sweet-smelling soap suds with it.

“Thinking is dangerous this early in the morning.”

“Ha ha,” Roger says sarcastically. “So is startling a man in the shower, you know.”

“I’ll ask politely, then,” John says. The sound of the shower door opening slightly echoes around the space. “Mind if I join you?”

“It sounds like you already are.”

“Rude of me.”

“Mmh. Well, it _is_ your bathroom, so…” he trails off as he feels a cool hand against his waist. “God. You’re all cold.”

“You’re hogging the spray.”

“How very dare I. It’s almost like I was here first or something.”

“At least let me under,” John pleads.

Roger rolls his eyes, turning into his touch and grabbing the showerhead off the hook. He steps forward until he’s facing John head-on, John’s quite frankly freakishly-large hands coming up to steady his hips, and begins spraying down his shoulders for him.

John, apparently rather pleased by the turn of events, smiles hard enough to display his dumb irritating tooth-gap and equally irritating dimples.

“No funny business,” Roger says blandly.

“Mmh.”

“I have places to be.”

“I’m not trying to start anything.”

“Sure.”

“Why do you always assume I’m thinking with my dick?” John asks, his voice mockingly sad.

 _Because you literally always are,_ Roger wants to say. He huffs instead. “What, so you’re simply cherishing the joys of fighting over the showerhead with another grown man?”

John blinks at him, but Roger can’t tell for the life of him whether the flush in his cheeks is due to the hot water or something else.

Most likely it’s just arousal. Or hot water. Or both.

Roger sighs, stepping away. The moment is getting to him in a way he can’t quite qualify, and it’s setting him on edge. “All yours,” he says, handing off the showerhead. “Let me out.”

“Wait, I didn’t mean to make—”

“I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Did I upset you?”

“No,” Roger says insistently. “I have an event in five minutes now and I still need to dry my hair.”

“Roger,” John says, squeezing his hip lightly, and when Roger doesn’t pause he lets go—at least he’s still keeping the risk of either of them slipping and falling to their deaths in mind—only to brush his fingers across his bicep. “ _Rog.”_

“What?” Roger snaps, turning.

He doesn’t think he’s imagining the hurt on John’s face. He looks like Roger just slapped him across the face, and Roger could kick himself for it—that because of him John went from flashing dimples to looking like _that._

Somehow, he forgot that for all of John’s stoicism and mystique, he’s still just as sensitive as anyone else.

But the expression disappears from John’s face just as fast, replaced with flat boredom. “Nothing,” he says blandly. “Have fun at your thing.”

“Wait,” Roger says.

“I’ll see you later.”

“John,” he insists.

He stays there until John looks at him, sending him a harsh frown. “You won’t make it at this rate,” he says.

“Fuck it,” Roger murmurs. “Fuck the stupid event. Come on. I’m sorry.”

John is still for a long moment before he sighs, his shoulders finally relaxing. “Me too,” he murmurs. “Sorry.”

“Come here.”

When John leans forward to kiss him his lips taste like shower water. It’s chaste as anything, but John sighs into it anyway.

Roger brushes a thumb across his cheek as he pulls away. “Chinese later, yeah?”

“Of course,” John says, as if nothing happened.

Roger just shakes his head as he gets out of the shower, surveying his hair in the mirror.

Yeah. There’s no way he’s going to make it downstairs in time.

In the end it’s not like it matters all that much. The banquet he was running late for in the first place is less of a formal sit-down affair and more of a cocktail hour, with tiny breakfast dishes set out on tiered trays while people wander to and fro. Between the endless cappuccinos and the eggs benedict bites, the whole event is a bit of a breeze.

“Have you tried the cinnamon rolls?” a girl asks him, settling beside him where he’s leaning against one of the tables. “To die for.”

“The little bastards with the sword toothpicks? Haven’t come across one yet,” he says distractedly.

“I love your accent.”

“Thanks,” he says distractedly. “English.”

“I know. You’re Roger Taylor.”

He grins, still scanning the room for cinnamon rolls as if one might walk up and introduce itself. “Are you a fan, then? Honored.”

“No,” she laughs. “Sorry. I only know you through association.”

“Brian?”

“Yeah. Who I only really know through association, as well.”

He turns to look at her finally, squinting in thought. “…Freddie.”

“Bingo!” she cheers.

Roger snorts. “So you’re a Freddie fan, then? Have you run into him yet?”

“No,” she says sadly. “He’s kind of elusive, honestly.”

“Yeah, I can agree with that,” he laughs. “I only met him for the first time this morning, actually.”

“What’s he like?”

“Sweet. He seems really nice.” A bit heartbroken, but he leaves that part out.

She lets out a giggle. “You know,” she starts, “I doubt that this is really appropriate to say, so you can stop me if you want—”

“Well, count me as intrigued.”

She laughs again. “Just that there used to be so many people that shipped you and Brian. Sorry, shipping is—”

“I know what shipping is,” he cuts in, laughing.

“So you know, then!”

“Well, how could I not? It was practically everywhere for a while!”

“But it’s all gone now,” she says, her eyebrows raised. “Everyone’s shipping him and Brian. Have you noticed that?”

He grins. “You guys must think we never use the internet, huh?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Oh, I know all about that. Come on, now.”

“Well, what do you think about it?”

He hums. “It is what it is, isn’t it? Just a bit of fun. Don’t assume I speak for everyone, though.” His phone dings, and he glances down at it quickly. “Fuck. I have to go buy John Deacon some crab rangoon.”

“You what?”

“Here, Freddie’ll be at Ballroom A in half an hour. He’d probably love to meet you. Don’t ask him about Brian or shipping or any of that,” he adds with a wink. “Pretty sure he’d faint on the spot.”

“Aww, thanks Roger!”

He snorts to himself, leaving the room and rounding the corner to the lobby. John is already there, standing just beside the revolving door and doing an admirable job of blending into the stainless-steel doorframe.

“How you manage to blend in like that, I’ll never know,” Roger greets him, tugging him toward the door.

John follows easily. “Side effect of not looking like a supermodel.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

John’s cheeks flare. “Whatever. You owe me food.”

The rest of the day slips by. A kiss to a fan gains him some cash in his pockets, and then he’s off to take Brian out to dinner, and then he’s off to his own room.

He’s barely in bed ten minutes before John is knocking on his door.

The night devolves into lazy, playful sex, Roger bouncing on John’s lap and the two of them giggling when they miss each other’s mouths in the darkness. It’s fun; after the day he’s had, it feels good. When he finally falls asleep he’s sore but content, John’s arms warm and comforting around his waist.

He’s up with the sun the next morning, and not entirely sure why.

He shifts on the mattress. John doesn’t move at all next to him, and when he rolls over to look at him in the grey morning light it’s to see that he’s very much dead asleep, his arms reaching out and his fingers just barely brushing Roger’s shoulder.

He sits up in bed, stretching. He feels pretty good, all things considered. His thoughts wander to Brian, who’d spent all night fretting over Freddie—again—and part of him wonders if dinner last night should be followed by breakfast this morning.

He gets out of bed and wanders into the hallway to knock on his door and ask, a little surprised to see light already shining through the peep hole.

There’s a shuffle behind the door before it’s thrown open. “I distinctly remember you saying seven,” Brian is saying.

Roger blinks at him.

Brian blinks back.

It’s not like he has ground to stand on, as far as surprise is concerned. He’s the one who’s dressed like some sort of MCR wet dream. His hair is in a bun, he has black jeans and a white shirt on, and the whole ensemble is somehow a little severe.

“Uh,” Roger says, considering beating a hasty retreat, and then he hesitates as a grin stretches over his face. “Wait, so what exactly is happening here?”

Brian sighs in relief. “I thought you were Freddie.”

“That really explains nothing.”

“Freddie wants to play hooky from the con,” he says.

“Freddie? With _you?”_

“Yes.”

“ _Hooky_?”

“He cited it as ‘self-care’.”

“Seriously? And all this,” he asks, gesturing to Brian’s entire body, “is for…what exactly?”

“A disguise, apparently,” Brian says, fidgeting. “Look, sorry. Did you need anything, or…?”

“Yes,” Roger says, still looking him over. “Yes, I do actually need something. I was going to ask you if you wanted to get breakfast since you so _rudely_ didn’t join me for dinner last night, but now what I need is to help you play dress-up.”

Brian sighs. “I really don’t—”

“No, I’m helping,” Roger says, cackling. “This is great!” He turns, quickly swiping himself back into his room.

Brian blinks. “You really aren’t—”

“I have the perfect jacket for you,” Roger says, flicking his bedside lamp on as he digs through his suitcase for the object in question.

On the bed, John shifts. “Babe?” he groans, his voice rough as gravel, and something in Roger’s chest clenches.

“Brian’s playing dress-up,” Roger says quietly, swallowing around the feeling.

“Oh.” And then there’s rustling for real as John gets out of bed, wandering to the door in nothing but a loose pair of joggers. Roger looks back in time to see him straighten, looking Brian over. _“Oh._ Are you giving him the black—”

“Yeah,” Roger answers. “If I can bloody _find_ it.”

“It’s hanging in the bathroom,” John supplies easily. “What you really need is just a tiny bit of eyeliner.”

“Seriously?” Brian asks skeptically.

“Yeah. You want to borrow some of Roger’s?”

“I’ve got my own.”

“Excellent,” John says. “Lipstick?”

“No.”

“I’ll text Freddie.”

“Don’t ask _Freddie_ to—”

“No, I’m asking him. I swear, not a single person is going to recognize you.”

Not five minutes later Brian is standing in front of his own hotel mirror, Roger looking over one shoulder and John, still clad in only pajamas, looking over the other.

He really can’t deny that they outdid themselves.

Brian’s eyes are gently lined with black, the line of it blended into his skin and making him appear almost austere. Roger’s jacket just barely reaches the bottom of his ribcage, the distressed black denim dotted with bright political buttons and band patches. Between the dark palette, the man bun and the eyeliner he can easily see the picture John and Roger had imagined in their heads. He looks like a typical hipster college punk.

He doesn’t look at all like Brian May.

“Wow,” Freddie says from the doorway.

Freddie is dressed in his best tourist chic, from the looks of it—but that doesn’t hide the wonder in his eyes as he looks at Brian, nor the dopy smile on his face.

“Just one thing to finish up the look,” Freddie breathes, striding up to Brian and swiping lipstick carefully over his lips. “There,” he murmurs, grinning. “You look absolutely perfect.”

“Punk really suits you, Brian,” John comments dryly, and when Roger looks over it’s to see him holding his phone aloft.

“Are you really filming this?” Freddie asks flatly.

“Shut up. It’ll be a great tiktok.”

“You know the goal is for us _not_ to be recognized, right?”

“I’ll post it tomorrow,” John says distractedly.

Freddie rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Let’s get going, darling. John, Roger—enjoy your morning.”

“Oh, we will,” Roger says with a slow grin.

Freddie rolls his eyes, dragging Brian out of the room behind him.

John and Roger watch them from the hallway until they disappear around the corner. Finally John lets out a little giggle.

“I think you owe me brunch for waking me up so early, you know,” John murmurs.

Roger laughs. “I have a better idea.”

“Like?”

“How about another hour of sleep?”

“Deal.”

* * *

When John next wakes its to see Roger coming back from the bathroom. He’s soft and sleepy and pliant when he slides back into bed, curling into John’s space.

It makes John’s throat go dry.

“Morning,” he whispers.

John ducks to kiss the top of his head. “Morning the second time. Sleep okay?”

“Mhm. Do I still owe you brunch?”

“In a bit,” John whispers. He lets the hand on Roger’s hip slide lower—just barely an inch, but Roger’s eyes flick up to his, his face full of mirth.

Roger huffs out a laugh. “Yeah?” he whispers, his voice still sleep-rough.

“Yeah.”

Roger sighs against his mouth when he kisses him. He’s lovely like this, his mouth warm and welcoming, and John revels in being able to lick past his lips. He swallows his tiny moan with a hum and curls closer.

“Yeah,” he whispers again, rolling Roger backward on the mattress.

Roger huffs another laugh. “Something other than brunch, then?” he asks. “What’s gotten into you?”

John licks his lips. He doesn’t know, not really. Maybe it’s the luxury of being able to lay beside Roger in the first place. He has no idea, and even less of an idea of how to put it into words without it sounding weak, even to his own ears. He settles for kissing Roger again and making to roll on top of him before Roger stops him dead in his tracks by bowling him over and straddling him.

He reaches up to steady him, cradling his hips in his hands, not moving him one way or another but just taking him in, and Roger blinks at him, wide-eyed. “What’s that look for?” he asks under his breath.

“Nothing,” John says immediately. He worries a thumb over Roger’s hipbone and revels in the way he shivers. “Nothing. I just like looking at you.”

“Maybe you should do more than look.”

“Maybe,” John muses. He tugs at the waistband of Roger’s joggers, tugging them far enough that he can palm at his ass and watch him squirm. “Any ideas on what?”

“Making me come a time or two would be great,” Roger says dryly. Or it would be dry, if he could pull that off given his current state.

John laughs. “A time or two? Be careful what you wish for.”

“Honey, you’re a little vanilla,” Roger says, and something in John’s stomach twists uncomfortably. “Forgive me if I’m not scared.”

There’s no way Roger knows the truth. There’s no way, right? He hadn’t even asked about it after their first time. Surely if he’d known he would have said _something,_ right?

Surely he just means that John is vanilla. That’s all he means.

Not that John even is.

“You think so?” John asks him quietly.

“I know so.”

“So your definition of vanilla is…”

“Sweet,” Roger coos, gasping softly when John squeezes his ass. “I like it, don’t get me wrong.”

“And if I were to finger you until you come dry for me,” John asks him conversationally, “would that be considered sweet to you, or…”

“Coming early is your thing, not mine,” Roger says with a shit-eating grin.

That’s it, really.

John pushes at him until he gets up, his blue eyes wide and startled as if he thinks he’s crossed a line—and he has, really, just not the one that he thinks.

“Strip,” John says flatly.

Roger swallows visibly. He’s half hard when he loses his joggers.

“There you go,” John murmurs, patting his lap. “Come back.”

“Are you going to—”

“No,” John says. “This is all about you, isn’t it? Let’s see how worked up we can really get you, huh?”

“John,” Roger starts.

“Nu-uh. Where’d the lube go?”

“Nightstand.”

“Perfect.” He has to strain to get ahold of it, thumbing it open one-handed once his fingers close around the bottle. Roger gasps at the sound. “You’re so tense. Relax for me.”

“Easier said than done,” Roger mutters.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” Roger swallows as he runs his palms over the warm skin of his thighs. He squirms a little on his lap. “Yeah, I’m good.”

John laughs under his breath. He dumps a liberal amount of lube on his fingers, brushing past Roger’s balls and watching him shiver before rubbing over his entrance and pressing two fingertips in, Roger gasping as he does.

“Sensitive for me?” he asks quietly.

Roger nods. “From last night. I’m still a little…”

“What?” he asks, pausing.

“Sore,” Roger breathes. “It’s good, though.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Go.”

Roger’s eyelids dip shut as he pushes in a little deeper, and when they open again it’s only halfway. His mouth falls open on a gasp when he crooks them upward.

“Beautiful,” John sighs; he practically startles himself with it, but he can hardly help it. He pushes his fingers in all the way, and between the lube and how puffy and loose Roger is around him he meets no resistance.

“John,” Roger breathes, pushing back into his touch.

“Is that good?”

“So good.”

He crooks his fingers up and revels in the way Roger gasps, falling down onto his chest as his arms fail him. He rubs his prostate in a lazy circle and grins into Roger’s hair as Roger moans.

“John, _fucking_ Christ.”

“No, I’m fucking someone else,” John says blandly.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he tells him, then pushes against his prostate again to prove it. Roger twitches in his arms. “You’re lovely like this,” he murmurs, half to himself.

Roger just moans, high in his throat. He squirms, pushing backward until he’s fucking himself on John’s fingers for real, clenching around him and moaning every time John presses back up into him.

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t getting to him, but he does his best to ignore the arousal pooling in his own belly. It’s easy to think of other things, anyway. With the way Roger is crowded into his space, panting next to his ear and filling all five of his senses, it’s hard not to.

Roger punctuates the point by moaning loudly into his chest.

“Yeah?” John asks him.

Roger nods.

John laughs. “I seem to remember you saying—”

“John,” Roger hisses frantically. _“John.”_

And then, just like that, he’s shooting off all over John’s chest.

John’s initial shock fades in a millisecond, his hand working on autopilot as he works him through it, his fingers gradually slowing until they’re just barely teasing at his rim, working him through the final tremors. Roger gasps raggedly against his sternum.

“So,” John murmurs, shifting his fingers just the barest amount and watching Roger twitch. “What was that about me being easy?”

“What was that about making me come at least twice?” Roger sasses breathlessly, his voice thin.

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “You really want to go there? _Now?”_

“When else?” When Roger tilts his chin up to look at him his eyes are hard and challenging, despite the flush in his cheeks and the sweat making his hair stick to his forehead.

John just holds his gaze as he crooks his fingers upward, straight into his spot.

Roger moans, his face dropping back into John’s chest. _“Fuck._ ”

“Is this okay?” John whispers.

“Yeah.”

“It’s not too much?”

“No, keep going.”

“You’ll tell me if you want to stop?”

“John. Come on.”

“Ask me nicely, then,” he murmurs, ducking to kiss Roger’s temple to soften the harshness of it.

Roger huffs. What’s visible of his cheeks is bright red and flaming. “Please,” he gets out, just below his breath.

John grins. He presses a kiss to the space above his ear, unable to help himself. He pulls out briefly to squirt more lube onto his fingers, humming quietly as Roger whimpers at the feeling, and then he’s pressing back in and getting back to work.

Roger is groaning almost constantly against his chest, twitching with practically every movement of his fingers. He can feel wetness against his own skin, and he isn’t quite sure if it’s drool or tears. He drags Roger’s head up by his hair just to get a good look at his face.

He’s not disappointed. Roger’s pupils are blown, his face flushed and sweat-glazed, and he can’t quite focus on John’s eyes.

“Fuck,” John murmurs. He lets go of Roger’s hair, only for Roger’s head to immediately drop back against his chest, his body completely boneless. “You’re so lovely, letting me use you like this—begging for it like this. Aren’t you? You’re so obedient.”

Roger squirms in his grip. “John,” he starts.

“None of that. Take it. You asked for this.”

He rubs hard against his prostate, reveling in the way Roger practically screams. He doesn’t say anything when Roger starts rutting against him, his cock rubbing through the mess of his own cum that’s still pooled on John’s stomach. John is fairly certain he isn’t even aware that he’s doing it, and it’s hot as fuck.

Roger moans high in his throat when John works in a third finger just because he knows that he can; with the way that Roger is stretched out and loose around him it’s barely even any effort to work it in, but nonetheless he rubs over his rim with his thumb just to be sure.

“That okay?” he murmurs into his hair.

Roger nods, his head tucked into John’s neck.

“Tell me,” John says, tugging at his hair.

Roger groans as if he’s been shot. “It’s perfect,” he gasps. “Fuck, John, your fingers.”

“Tell me,” he insists. “What’s it feel like?”

“So good. So fucking perfect.”

“What? Never had someone finger you?” John snorts.

“Not like _this._ Not like—oh god, oh _fuck—”_

“You gonna come for me again?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna—”

“Gonna come all over yourself again? You just can’t help it, can you? You just can’t handle how good it feels. Poor thing.”

Roger moans high and long, rutting against John’s stomach a few more times before stilling as he comes again, completely collapsing against him before his cock is even done twitching.

John kisses his temple. “Good boy,” he whispers. “That’s so good. God, look at you.”

Roger just sighs. He turns his head slightly against John’s shoulder, his face finally visible; his flushed cheeks and teary eyes. John kisses the corner of his mouth and smiles when it makes his lip quirk up.

“You’re being so good for me,” he whispers. “Wanna be good for me while I fuck you? I’ve got you so loose and sloppy and I’d love to feel you around my cock like that, honey.”

“I’m gonna gag you someday,” Roger says, his voice completely shot.

John laughs quietly. “Promises, promises.”

Roger rolls off of him, settling on his chest on the other side of the bed. John thinks that that means he’s down for the count; he thinks so, until Roger reaches up to grab one of the pillows before arching his back and shoving it over his own hips.

John rolls over just far enough to kiss him on the lips, smiling when Roger cranes his neck to press into the touch. He crawls until he’s hovering over him, lowering himself to blanket him, his chest pressing down against Roger’s back. It’s warm and intimate and lovely.

Roger sighs happily as he rubs a hand over his shoulder, stretching with his other hand to reach the condom sitting on the night stand. When he finally gets it he has to sit up slightly to tear it open and roll it on, and Roger hums unhappily as he does.

“I’m coming back. Don’t worry,” John says softly.

And then, after finally getting his trembling fingers to cooperate and roll the damned thing on, he resumes his former position. He settles against him, his cock against the top of his thigh, his chin hooked over his shoulder. He kisses his cheek sweetly, and Roger sighs before leaning up to press their lips together.

It’s slow and lazy and surprisingly chaste. Roger’s eyelids are drooping with exhaustion when he pulls away.

“Sure this is okay?” John whispers. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Roger just nods minutely. “Want you to,” he slurs. “Come on.”

John kisses him one last time before leaning away. He exhales against Roger’s shoulder as he reaches down to guide himself inside.

Roger sighs when he presses in; he sighs like he’s sinking into a warm bath—like he’s in utter bliss.

“There you go, baby,” John whispers to him. He reaches up to clasp their hands together, rolling his hips into Roger’s lazily. “There you go, that’s it.”

It takes a bit of shifting to figure out how to hit Roger’s prostate like this. He still doesn’t have much experience with it. Roger is so lovely and responsive, though; he’s so noisy when he likes something, every feeling telegraphed in the muscles of his shoulders and the grip of his fingers. He’s perfect.

John knows he’s hit it when Roger moans into the pillow, his rim clenching ever-so-slightly as John thrusts in hard, and John smiles to himself as he does it again and again. It has Roger moaning brokenly and squirming beneath him, somehow arching his back even further to press into the touch, his eyes wet and leaving streaks of tears down the side of his face.

John leans down to kiss them away. “Roger,” he breathes.

Those eyes open hazily to look at him.

“Is it too much?”

Roger looks at him, completely spaced out. It makes a thread of worry curl through his chest, and he slows down slightly.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Roger breathes. “More. Please.”

He holds him close as he fucks him—if he can even call it that anymore, because honestly he’s not really sure. It’s more of a lazy grind like this, but the same punched-out moans keep escaping from Roger’s throat.

It’s hard to keep a measured pace, though. Between the way that Roger keeps clenching down around him, the warmth of his body, the noises he’s making—between _everything—_ it’s practically impossible, and he can only do so much. He’s only human.

He loses control of the rhythm as arousal coils in his gut, and leans up again to fuck into him hard and fast.

“Roger,” he breathes. “Roger, _fuck,_ I’m gonna come. I want you to come with me, baby. Can you do that?”

Roger is letting out these sounds, rhythmic and breathy and completely zoned out, and John really isn’t sure if he can control them—if he’s even really hearing what John is saying.

He really hopes he is.

He can’t control his own body, like this. All he can do is thrust in a few more times, _hard_ , gripping Roger’s hips and dragging him backward into it.

“I’m coming,” he pants, his own pleasure peaking. “I’m _—_ fuck, honey, come for me. _Come on._ ”

Roger gasps, tensing, and then doesn’t make a single sound.

With the dizzying feeling in the back of his head, John can barely pay attention to it. His vision practically whites out as he squeezes his eyes shut, gathering all his focus to continue fucking into Roger, his own pleasure ricocheting off itself as he loses control. By the time he comes back to himself he’s collapsed against Roger’s back, his face pressed into his shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

He gets no answer.

“Roger?” he asks, frowning and pulling out. Roger shifts under him, but otherwise doesn’t respond.

He tugs the condom off quickly and chucks it in the direction of the bin before rolling off of Roger’s back, settling beside him and rolling him over slightly. His eyes are closed, his breathing light as if he’s just sleeping.

“Roger,” he says, louder this time.

Roger’s brow furrows slightly. He shifts, humming under his breath. “Off,” he mutters.

“Are you okay?” he asks him.

It’s possible that he’s having some sort of stroke—can twenty one year olds get strokes?—or…he doesn’t know. There have to be health concerns associated with this sort of thing, surely. Heart attacks? Is it possible for someone to just…fall asleep after a heart attack like this? For all intents and purposes Roger looks quite peaceful, but so do coma patients. He really needs to contact—

“’M fine,” Roger mutters. “Minute. Please.”

“Are you sure?” John asks him quietly.

“John,” Roger whines, squirming and reaching out for him.

John doesn’t even think before moving into his space, curling around him and cradling his head with one of his arms, stroking his back gently.

It’s nice to hold him close like this. It eases a little of the worry in his own chest. Roger is okay; he’s talking, he’s breathing, he’s somehow still a brat despite being completely out of it, and he’s fine.

They lay like that for—he isn’t sure how long. Ten minutes, maybe. Time is starting to blur and fade away entirely by the time Roger shifts against him, pressing his face harder against John’s neck.

“I haven’t been fucked like that,” he murmurs, his voice rough and quiet, “since…potentially ever.”

“Are you okay?” John asks him worriedly.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I didn’t hurt you?”

“I really don’t think I need to stroke your ego over this,” Roger grumbles.

John snorts. “That’s what I get for trying to look out for you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell it to the press.”

Yeah, he’s sure the vultures lurking around downstairs would love that. Talk about a way to spice up the con. They—

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Roger rolls to look at him, his eyes still hazy and unfocused. “What?”

“Fuck, Roger. The _con.”_

“Yeah?”

“I have an event.”

Roger’s eyes go wide. He blinks. “Right now?”

“Yes.” He rolls over to glance at the alarm clock. “Shit. Ten minutes. I have to go.”

“Skip it.”

“I can’t. You know they’ll be coming after us if we skip anything.”

“For me?” Roger whines at him, his lips quirking up so that John knows that he’s teasing.

Why doesn’t he sound like he’s teasing?

John leans over to kiss him, cradling his cheek in his hand. “I can’t,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. Later, alright? I’ll see you later.”

Roger looks oddly crestfallen at that. “Alright. Later,” he murmurs, but it doesn’t sound as teasing as John thought it would.

John hardly has time to think about it. He rolls out of bed quickly, picking a pair of jeans up from the floor and tugging them on. He throws on the first shirt he finds—Roger’s, he’s pretty sure, but it hardly matters—before checking his reflection in the mirror.

He really isn’t going to be able to make himself look less fucked-out in the next three minutes. He gives up on it entirely.

He runs back to the bed and kisses Roger’s cheek, earning himself a hazy frown. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he tells Roger. “Okay? I’ll curl right back up with you if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roger mumbles, rolling over. “Just go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I get it.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

 _“Alright,_ ” Roger gripes. “Go. I’ll miss you. Have fun.”

John hesitates before shaking his head. There’s nothing he can do to shake Roger out of his mood; not right now. He’ll leave it for later.

He rubs a hand over Roger’s shoulder, snags his room key from the counter and rushes out of the room.

Roger isn’t there when he comes back.

He isn’t there later that afternoon. He doesn’t text him back when John asks him where he is.

John spends the afternoon ignoring Instagram, trying to psyche himself up to go knock on Roger’s door and ask him how he is. Surely he isn’t mad at him about something. He can’t be.

Can he?

Was John too rough? Is his own inexperience once again rearing its ugly head? Did he hurt him in some way? Did he not pleasure him at all? Was Roger simply going along with it to make John feel better?

He shakes his head. Sitting here is only serving to drive him insane with his own thoughts.

He stands up, heading to the door and yanking it open, marching straight to the staircase and up to Roger’s room. Before he can lose the nerve he goes straight up to Roger’s door, raising his fist to knock.

Before he can the door is opening inward, Roger blinking at him from the doorway.

“Oh,” Roger says, startled, then shakes his head. “Oh. I was just coming to—do you want to come in?”

“Please,” John says quickly, standing aside to let him in.

Roger’s bed is pristine and untouched. They stand beside it awkwardly, Roger studying him while John shifts on his feet.

“I was going to come find you,” Roger starts. “I wanted to talk to you about something, if that’s alright. It’s nothing serious.”

“It sounds a little serious,” John jokes. “What, are we breaking up?”

Roger actually winces at that, and John frowns. “It’s—okay, so it’s a little serious, maybe. I just—I don’t want you to get mad or to take it the wrong way.”

He knows. Surely he knows. He’s known since the beginning that John lied to him. He hates him now, or maybe he’s always disliked him. He thinks John isn’t worth the time.

A hundred possibilities flood to his mind, each worse than the last. He doesn’t let a single one show on his face.

Instead he licks his lips and meets Roger’s eyes. “Okay,” he says softly. “Alright. What’s going on?”

“I just want to be honest with you,” Roger says. “I want us to be honest with each other. You appreciate honesty, don’t you? You seem like the kind of person who does.”

“Yeah, I do,” he says, his chest already sinking.

“Great. I just think it’s important for us to be truthful with one another. I—I _like_ you, John. You have a great personality.”

A great personality. _A great personality._

“I just need someone who tells me what’s going on. I need someone who makes me feel _good_ , you know?”

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice sounds hollow to his own ears. He knew it; of course he knew it. He knew he would never be enough for someone like him. “Yeah, I get it.”

“And I’ve wasted so much time on people who don’t,” Roger continues, his eyes wide and earnest and open, and the sick feeling in John’s chest morphs into something a little closer to anger. “I can’t survive in a relationship that’s just…this. It’s not real to me. I need more than that—than what we’re doing right now.”

“I get it, Roger,” John says. He clenches his jaw. “You’ve said enough.”

“Have I?” Roger asks, watching him with those same open eyes.

John’s gut turns. “Yeah,” he grits out, letting some of his own anger seep into his voice. The anxiety of the day crests all at once, crashing back down into fury and embarrassment. He can’t believe, after everything, that this is the way that this happens. “I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time with something that isn’t good enough. Clearly all that matters is how you feel.”

“Woah—hey,” Roger starts, frowning. “Just because I wish that you were more open with me—”

“I clearly don’t need to be, do I?” John snaps. “Seeing as you’ve already figured it out, anyway.”

“Figured what out?” Roger asks, frowning.

“Don’t play dumb blond on me now. It’s not a good look for you.” He huffs as Roger’s face darkens. “I can’t give you what you want. Maybe if you weren’t such a self-entitled, arrogant piece of _shit_ you wouldn’t have so much trouble with people wasting your time. I’m sorry that I gave you any of mine.”

“You’re such a frigid bitch.”

“Takes one to know one.” He starts toward the door, his hands already clenched at his sides. “Don’t call me.”

“Believe me, I won’t,” Roger calls after him, just as the door slams shut.

He pulls the anger to the front of his mind as he leaves the room. He lets it consume him completely, surging under his skin, making him slam the door open as hard as he can and all but run down the stairs.

It sustains him until he’s back in his own room, taking one look at the bed that’s still rumpled and smelling like him and sex and Roger, and that’s when he breaks.

He just barely makes it across the hall, swiping into Freddie’s room with his spare key, before the tears come.

He goes to the minibar immediately, drowning his sobs with a shooter of vodka, and then another, and then a third. He takes his fourth with him, rolling it between his hands as he sits on the foot of the bed.

He lost him, just like that.

He knew it was too good to be true. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold onto him.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about it. All he can do right now is do his best to forget it while he waits for Freddie to come home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this all makes sense and that it's filling in the gaps. I love you all and sincerely hope that you're doing well. It's been a hard few weeks, but I really enjoying escaping to this alternate universe of Summer 2020 in LA with all of you. Let me know what you think!


End file.
